


Things

by MemeKonVLD (MemeKonYA)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Developing Relationship, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, VLD Halloween Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/pseuds/MemeKonVLD
Summary: He only senses something is wrong when he tries to get his cup and knocks it over, instead, and then has trouble coordinating his limbs to clean the spill up with the elegant, shimmering cloth that he thinks looks too pretty to dirty up with his mess, in a deep red that grows darker and looks sort of unsettling when he stains it with his sweet smelling drink.





	Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breadpoetsociety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadpoetsociety/gifts).



> This is my gift for breadpoetsociety for the VLD Halloween Exchange.  
> Sorry for being a little late! I hope you like this!

They only notice something is off when it is too late to do anything, when their hosts have already plied them with laced drinks and food they’d drunk and eaten in good faith, heartily.

He should have noticed. He should have noticed the way their hosts behaved; he should have seen through them, seen the way they had only expressed a polite interest in diplomatic talks, in their mission, in Voltron and the coalition, and uniting against the Galra Empire. He should have seen how they’d smiled when Allura had complimented their cuisine, enigmatic and soft, with silent shared glances. 

He should have noticed how they hadn’t touched their own food, even after they had been halfway through the main course themselves.

He only senses something is wrong when he tries to get his cup and knocks it over, instead, and then has trouble coordinating his limbs to clean the spill up with the elegant, shimmering cloth that he thinks looks too pretty to dirty up with his mess, in a deep red that grows darker and looks sort of unsettling when he stains it with his sweet smelling drink.

He smiles in what he hopes is a winsome manner at the dignitary on his left, but at that moment he feels a knot of dread tying itself in his gut, refusing to untie itself as the conversion goes on.

He tries flexing his fingers under the table and feels a disconnect, a sensation of plain _wrongness_ as his fingertips touch the center of his palm, as if the fingers were somebody else’s.

He frowned down at his fist then, and the knot in his gut starts climbing up the insides of his body, the anxiety solidifying, transforming into a mass of _fear_ as he fixes his gaze on his empty cup and plate, his vision going slightly blurry at the edges.

He has enough time to chance a panicked look across the table at Hunk, who is looking down at his own raised and outstretched hand, visibly trembling, and then the world goes wobbly and he feels it tilt on its axis.

He hears a dull thud as his field of vision blurs again, dizziness overcoming him, and then he just feels an icy coldness against his cheek, startling and almost as painful as the throbbing on his head.

Then, there’s shrill laughter, like nails on a chalkboard, gleeful and blood curling.

And finally, darkness.

 

It becomes clear soon enough after waking up that this— whatever this is— is meant to be some sick sort of hide-and-seek game for these guys, some twisted form of entertainment.

He can see blinking dots of red light up on the dark ceiling, the only thing he can clearly see even in the suffocating darkness, and thinks _cameras_.

 

The first _thing_ finds him barely able to stand, hands still tingling from whatever they’d been dosed with, feet too heavy to run when he hears its low, dangerous growls.

Its eyes are violently red when it hurls itself over him, shining and bloodthirsty.

 _I don’t want to die without getting to taste my mom’s cooking again,_ he thinks as the creature— whatever it is— struggles to get a piece of him, piercing claws slashing away at Lance’s arms and face and neck.

 _I don’t want to die alone_ , a sad, dark little part of him whispers.

 _I don’t want to die,_ he thinks, and fights back for his life.

 

Whatever it is melts into the ground after Lance bashes its head in with a rock, splattering himself with its viscous blood, closing his eyes, biting back tears, and trying not to throw up.

When it can’t move anymore, he takes a couple of steps back— wanting to get away, but barely able to get his feet to obey him— until his back hits a wall.

And it melts, right into the ground. 

_Like an ice cream scoop that falls on the sidewalk in summer_ , he thinks, a little hysterical, as he slides down to the floor.

 

He can’t tell how long it’s been when he finds Keith, astride one of the _things_ , stabbing it over and over again, eyes wild and jaw clenched.

“Keith. _Keith_ , it’s dead,” he whispers, and Keith immediately stops, eyes snapping up to Lance, focusing entirely on him.

Lance holds his hands up, trying to appear as inoffensive and unthreatening as he possibly can, and comes a couple of steps closer.

“It’s dead, buddy,” he repeats and puts a hand on one of Keith’s shoulders.

Keith shivers under his touch.

“Lance?” He asks, in a strangled gasp, eyes roaming all over him. He looks uncertain, shaken, as though he can’t quite believe it’s him.

Lance’s heart clenches uncomfortably.

“Yeah, mullet boy, it’s me. Wanna, uh, get off that—” he swallows, “that thing?”

His attempt to affect a cocky attitude falls flat when his voice breaks a little on his last word. He feels his cheeks heat up a little over the flub, but can’t find it in himself to get worked up about it like he would in other — _better_ — situations.

It seems to be that moment, though, that makes Keith’s shoulder relax under his hand, eyes slipping shut for a couple of seconds before he finally — _finally_ — walks away from the thing.

They both watch it melt away.

 

“They talk,” Keith tells him later, after they’ve spent a couple of quiet minutes just— sitting next to each other on the cold, dirty floor, listening to the deafening, eerie silence that surrounds them. “They sound— they sound familiar. They say— _things_.”

“ _Things?_ ” He tries to mock, but it’s half-hearted and fake even to his own ears, and all Keith does is nod and sort of shrug and then sigh.

“Things,” he repeats, and Lance only hums in response then, trying to hide the way he leans against Keith in some kind of weird stretching motion.

Keith doesn’t try to mask the way he leans back against him, heavy and secure.

 

_Things._

They say awful things. Wretched things. Things that Lance hears in nightmares, things that come from the worst scenarios his anxiety and self-worth issues can conjure. Things that he never even wanted to imagine.

The things can sound like anyone. They come as Hunk, as Shiro, as Pidge.

They come as Lance’s nephew and niece, as his mom.

They come as Keith’s dad. As the mother he knows Keith never knew.

 _Things_ , Lance thinks as his stomach roils and the _thing_ underneath him begs for its life in his sister’s voice as it digs its claws into Lance’s wrist while Lance stabs it through with what looks like a rusted pipe, _they say things_.

 

It’s the stuff of nightmares. 

Literally.

It’s being lost, and hiding down unknown halls and running and fighting shadows and never knowing when you’re going to be descended upon by—

— by whatever those things are.

It’s hearts racing and cold sweat and _fear_. 

It’s wondering how they didn’t see the signs that something was wrong, blaming themselves for not seeing them.

It’s not having any idea of how long they’ve been here.

It’s Keith waking up startled, disoriented, grasping at whatever part of him he can reach, eyes wide and fearful, searching. It’s his shaky exhale when he realizes Lance is alive, when he can finally register Lance’s voice, Lance’s strong grip around one of the white knuckled fists he makes over Lance’s chest, over the exact place where Lance’s heart beats.

It’s running like little mice in a maze, under a watchful eye.

 

Keith has a fresh gash on his cheek, starting just under his left eye, going all the way to his chin. Lance knows it must hurt like a son of a gun, but he pays it no mind, his eyes focused on Lance himself instead, on the wound on his arm that he’s attempting to hide under a splayed hand, to no avail. 

“We need to get this cleaned up, somehow,” Keith says, frowning. 

Lance reaches out towards him and rubs some blood away from the corner of Keith’s mouth with the heel of the hand he isn’t using to hold his arm.

“We need to get that cleaned up too,” he replies, and bites on a rueful smile when Keith’s frown deepens as he carelessly swipes one of his own hands over his cheek and then looks at the way it’s covered in blood and dirt in confusion.

“Yeah, you didn’t get out of that one unscathed, partner.”

Keith wipes the blood on his suit, uncaring, mutters _I’m okay_ and goes back to trying to inspect Lance’s wound through the gaps between Lance’s fingers. He doesn’t try to touch him, but Lance can tell he wants to, can read it plain as day on him, because Keith’s still transparent. 

It’s— it’s good.

It’s him. It’s— normal.

And they both could use some normal now.

 

“Do you practice gymnastics?” Keith asks during one of their breaks from trying to get out of the maze. He’s not looking at Lance as he asks, eyes suspiciously fixed on a point on the wall in front of them, maybe the crack that’s leaking. 

“No,” Lance replies, and frowns at the crack to see if there’s anything noteworthy there. There isn’t. “I did do aerial silk for the longest time, though. With my older sister.”

Keith frowns and looks at him, then, confused.

“What’s that?”

“Aerial silk? The thing with the long fabric that’s hanging from the roof, y’know? And the acrobatics?” He says, making a couple of gestures that could be someone hanging from something with a little imagination.

“You— You perform acrobatics while hanging on from _fabric_ ,” Keith states, sounding dumbfounded. “How have you not brained yourself yet?”

“I’ll have you know I’m the pinnacle of grace,” he boasts. “Where did that come out from, though?”

Keith suddenly avoids his eyes, and that gives him this sort of nice little jolt, a rush of energy that makes him scoot closer, until he can kind of see that Keith’s cheeks look— 

“Are you blushing?” He asks, amazed.

Keith covers his face with both hands then, and Lance bursts out laughing.

Keith gives him a shove and Lance just lets himself fall on his back, laughing harder than he has in a while, without even knowing why he finds the situation so amusing.

When he’s running out of air and struggling to get himself under control, wiping tears from his grimy face away with the back of his hand, he catches Keith looking down at him with soft eyes, and an even softer smile. 

“Hey,” He says, then, and feels the jolt again, electric and pleasant and exciting, “do you want me to teach you when we get out of here?”

Keith blinks a couple of times at that, face going through a couple of expressions until it settles on one of quiet determination.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Lance gives him what he hopes is a bright, reassuring smile, and Keith returns it with one of his one, smaller, more measured, but just as honest, just as ready. 

He can read it clearly in the air between them that they’ve agreed to much more than that in that one moment, that they have promised a chance to each other, once they get out.

And that they have also promised to each other that they _will_ get out.

And Lance? Well, Lance is a guy who keeps his promises.

And he doesn’t need anyone to tell him that Keith is just the same.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come hang out with me on tumblr!](http://memekon.tumblr.com)


End file.
